Beeler.
Guess I better go keep an eye out myself.
Martha.
Guess you had!
Beeler goes out by the kitchen. Martha takes up mechanically her eternal task of setting things to rights—gathering up Annie's toys and arranging the furniture in more precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda enters from the hall with the mother of the sick child, a frail young woman of nervous type. She clings to Rhoda feverishly.
Mother.
Don't leave me!
Rhoda.
You mustn't worry. Your baby will get well.
Rhoda sinks in a low easy chair before the fire, and the woman kneels beside her, her face hidden on the chair arm.